Nothing
by Escape Velocity
Summary: His world is cold and he is nothing...so how can he love?


Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to J. K Rowling

A/N: An insight into Percy's world…

"Percy, it's two o'clock. Please go to sleep." Molly Weasely looked at her son, who was bent over his desk

His head whipped up, and she was troubled. His eyes had dark circles etched beneath them, like shadows made by a B pencil

"I have to finish this report," he said dully. His fingers were inky to the second knuckle

"Can't it wait till tom- till a reasonable hour? You've been working far too hard lately, Percy, even for you."

"I don't want to let people down! Please mum, I'm perfectly fine!" He shifted so his back was pointed to her.

She ignored the hint

"What's wrong, Percy? You've been pushing yourself, you hardly come down to eat-"

He clenched his hands into fists, so that his quill almost snapped. His jaw hurt- was he grinding his teeth in his sleep, he wondered.

"You should spend more time with Penny, it isn't fair on her-"

"I'm going to bed now, mother," he cut off abruptly, and flung his quill down, "And please," he added acidly as he opened his wardrobe to take out his pyjamas, "Please tell Fred and George not to wake me up with one of their _ridiculous_ pranks this morning."

"Oh Percy, they're just having fun," the woman said desperately

"I don't call dying all my work robes a lurid pink and scrawling 'suck up' on my briefcase _funny_, mother," snapped Percy, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Percy," she said with a slight smile and removed herself from the doorway, closing the door behind her

He changed, meticulous as always. His pyjamas were grey silk, sophisticated and sombre. Just like him. He aspired to be everything personified in the clean silk, cold and soft and harsh and glittering, expensive, unique, coveted.

They were thin, and very, very cold. The floor under his feet was cool as glass. Inside his heart, it frosted.

With a quick, angry movement he pulled back the duvet. It was plain white, with a raised embroidered pattern of wands shooting sparks. The sheets were crispy linen, white. The pillow, soft beneath his head, was white and cool.

Tears slipped slowly from his eyes, seeping into the down. He tried to stop them but it was too late- once released, they could only gush, until six thirty am, when he would wake up, the pillowcase sodden, his jaw aching, his lip bleeding. He'd clean himself up and go downstairs and probably set off one of the twins' pranks. He'd snap at them and, hateful of their pompous brother, they'd plan their next joke. 

When his mother came up to make his bed, she would find it neat and perfect, dry, straight, uniform. She'd smile wryly and wish Fred and George's rooms could look like this. Her eyes would flit to Penelope's photograph and she'd sigh. A plain chrome frame, a simple photograph of a serious Penny. 

He hated that photo now, hated how the image, the flat, glossy image gave him such a look of sympathy. If he switched on the light, as he sometimes did, he would see her compassion ate smile. It used to make him happy- he could tell her about his failures, his misery and she'd give that smile and it would- dear God, it would _comfort_ him.

Now it just made him sick.

"Lumos," he whispered, and the sound of his soft voice seemed to echo forever. By the light of the end of his wand- always kept on the polished mahogany of his bedside table, within easy reach- his room looked garish, and colourless. Which it was. Muggle scientists said white wasn't a colour, black wasn't a colour. His room was grey. A nothing colour, invisible. Just like him. The nothing son, nothing brother, nothing worker at the ministry, nothing wizard, nothing boyfriend, nothing person.

The tears were drying rapidly on his face, stiff and itchy on his wan cheeks. He rubbed at them and looked around his room. The nothing room.

As if she- it- knew what he was thinking, Penelope's photographed face gave him a look, so tender and full of compassion he wanted to owl Penny right away, but he also wanted to vomit until there was nothing left. Be purged, clean, empty. A nothing. 

She kept smiling, gently, sweetly, compassionately. As if she knew what he was feeling. How could she?

Rage flashed red in his eyes, and before he realised it, her picture was lying at the other end of the room, the glass shattered, the chrome bent, the gloss torn, scattered over a penholder and a stack of papers. There was a sound ringing in his ears. Penelope's face was shocked, angered, hurt- and she had a tear that split her face in two. 

"Percy! Percy are you all right?" That was mum, all concern in a frilly pink bathrobe

"Yeah Perce, why'd you wake us up?" That was Fred -or George- with George -or Fred -next to him, identical in woolly blue pyjamas

"What is it?" yelled Ron as he hurtled into the room, resplendent in maroon, "Is everything all right?" Always ready for action, that was Ron. The years of fighting Voldemort with Harry and Hermione had taken its toll. He looked tired. Behind him hovered Ginny, a petite figure in green.

"What's Penelope's photograph doing on the floor, Percy?" his mother held it up

"Nothing!" he snapped, snatching it from her

"And this is such an expensive frame, how did it get bent?" she held up her wand

"I…" he blinked, "I don't want to talk about it. Please leave. I need my rest to work at peak performance." He glared at them. Yawning, Fred and George were the first to shuffle off, followed by Ron. His mother gave him a concerned look, and he felt like letting her hug him and crying in her shoulder.

_"What's the matter, Percy?"_

_"Bill and Charlie won't play with me! They said I was boring! I'm not, am I, mum?"_

_"Of course you aren't, love. You're just- different- to them."_

_"Is different bad? Will I always be different? Do they hate me?"_

Childhood fears and worries, resurfacing, always. _Do they hate me?_ Something so simple, and it troubled him, always. _Do they hate me?_

"I wish you would talk to me, Percy," said his mother, "I wish you wouldn't be so damn unreachable!" the scream erupted from her lips before she could conceal it, and she turned away, angry and hurt and bitter. Unreachable.

_Do you hate me?_

_Don't hate me. Please_

_I want to be liked._

Ginny gazed at him 

"You're just pushing us all away," she said, her eyes green eyes big and bright in a pale face, "You hate us, don't you, Percy?"

_Don't hate me. _

_Always, always the one to be hated._

_Darkness. No, greyness. A nothing colour._

_Nothing…_

_The nothing._

"You can't…" her voice choked, "You can't love us…and we've…accepted that. Why can't you let us love you anyway?"

_"I just don't think you can love me, Percy. It's not about whether you want to, you just can't. You just can't…love."_

_"But…"_

_"No buts…Percy…I love you…Oh God this hurts so much…"_

_"Penny…"_

_"No…don't do this to me…I-I'm going to m-marry Ian…he's kind…he loves me…I feel safe…He's warm…I need that…I've been out in the cold too long…And the cold…You're the cold, Percy. You're the cold."_

_"Penny…"_

_"Please…"_

_"Penny I want…want to love you…Believe me…"_

_"I know…"_

_"I'll learn…"_

_"No! I can't _**take** _the cold anymore, don't you understand that, Percy? Why don't you _**understand**_!"_

_"Don't go…"_

_"Goodbye…I won't ever speak to you again…You're chilling…chilling and killing…Oh God…"_

"Why, Ginny?"

His youngest sibling, the only one who had ever pretended to understand him, turned

"Why what?"

"Why can't I love?"

_Nothing…_

"I don't know…you have to find that out for yourself. I can't help you."

"What's it like to love?"

"Like everything."

"And I'm nothing…I was never meant to love…" He turned away and rushed into his room, slamming his door shut in his sister's face

He lay on his bed and felt the tears come.

_Nothing…_


End file.
